Eleven years ago, my teacher pulled me aside and told me to take the bus that was waiting outside of the school and go home. I never asked why, I just complied as did all of the other American students. All of us filed out in a single line, waiting to board the bus, I was one of the youngest boarding.
“What’s going on?” confused faces and voices asked the air.
I had no idea, I was seven.
We came home and my parents hugged both of us tightly, I was small then and could fit into all three of their arms. Something was wrong.
He broke the anticipation.
“The US was just attacked.” he turned on the television to show the videos. I didn’t understand at the time, but I think if I saw it now I would have cried.
“Three planes.” he always thought we were mature enough to know what any adult should know.
“one of them hit it’s destination, the other two thwarted by brave people.”
There was still no glimmer of understanding. I was so confused.
One sentence later my confusion was rectified.
“Things are going to change.”
Sure enough they did, school was cancelled for the next few days and I continued being a child, politics never sat well with me and they still don’t. I lived freely and wonderfully until sixth grade when a classmate stood in front of the class and with a brave face said as strongly as she could:
“My dad went to the bathroom when the plane hit. If he hadn’t…” she couldn’t finish her sentence and suddenly I realized how serious this was.
Never forget 9/11. God bless the ones affected by it.